


I could die, I could die and never cry again

by luxuries



Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Slade Wilson, Whumptober, and that's on trauma baby!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuries/pseuds/luxuries
Summary: His head drops with the name on his lips. He lets the fight leave his body. Lets himself go limp, put all his trust- his life, in the man's calloused, blood soaked hands.It isn't as scary as Dick thought it would be.Or:Dick is a dumbdumb and ends up in one of Slade's safehouses.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947232
Comments: 8
Kudos: 177
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I could die, I could die and never cry again

**Author's Note:**

> No 7. I’VE GOT YOU Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker from whumptober 2020 <3  
> Content warning for a very subtle, brief mention of past rape. A little blood too, but it is not described much.  
> Also, you could technically read this as platonic if you want. Personally, I had a more intimate relationship in mind but thats up to your interpretation :)

He was a little too reckless; he'll admit that. His upper right arm is covered by his left hand, clenching over the gaping wound to slow the bleeding. He was feeling woozy, a combination of blood loss and his own stupid lack of sleep and nutrition. Darn drug lords. He'd have a word with Jason tomorrow. They were getting more and more rowdy as of late. 

He bites his lip to stop the moan halfway up his throat, fighting with the window clasp to open. The climb up was hard enough; seeing stars for a while before vomiting something that looked like alphabet soup but was really just his stomach bile. In Dick's point of view, it mocked him, spelling out _D U M B A S S_ with a half chewed up exclamation point which at first looked like a colon. Gross. 

"Come on," He seethes, suddenly enraged at the sleek metallic window for no good reason. He was in the good part of town, where all the homes were modern and the people were cruel. He'd have to keep his voice down to avoid the neighbours concerns. 4 am was a strange time- an inbetween sort of time. A quiet, restless time. The only people still awake were either worn-down officers or eager criminals; Dick wanted to alert neither.

After a few more attempts and pained grunts, he hears a clicking sound and gratefully slides it open. He slips/falls into the safehouse, attempting to get up but then deciding to lay on the floor for a while instead. It was kinda comfortable, if you were into laminated flooring and all. It was better than cement. He's slept on worse. Way worse. Besides, you need to catch sleep anywhere you can in his line of work. It was totally reasonable to take a quick nap. 

Before he can drift off, someone lightly moves his head to the side with the sole of their foot. Dick groans in response, trying to convey his status: _Leave me alone._ It doesn't work, hands hovering over his suit, searching for the zip no doubt. 

They find it eventually, hand tightening on the fabric; but before they can open even an inch of his suit, Dick is on the offence. He startles wide awake and tries to adjust his eyesight to the low lighting, hastily retreating backwards to the corner of the room. His arm screams at him for mercy. He's panting in distress- flashes of scenes he really wants to forget, more painful than any injury ever will be, invading his mind. 

"Don't-," He manages, his back propped to the wall, hands searching for a grip on the cold, unnaturally clean floor. 

"Grayson, it's Slade." The man tries, approaching his tensed form. Dick hisses in fake courage, faintly aware that he is wounded and in no position to fight. He has to try- has to go down fighting. Make sure his father is not totally disappointed with his death. Not disappointed with the weaknesses Dick can't stop showing. Remembering hands, hands, hands and saliva and something else and oh god.

"Richard Grayson. You are in my apartment." The man starts again, putting his hands out to show he's unarmed. "Please stop bleeding all over my floor. It's brand new." The figure draws nearer slowly; like he's a wild dog. An untrained circus tiger. Dick glances down and see's the puddle of blood, realizing he was, in fact, bleeding all over the brand new floor. Skid marks formed artistically in his halfhearted attempt to escape. 

For reasons he can't explain, he starts crying. And not the attractive femme fatale type Dick was quite keen on; no, he was ugly crying. The whole shebang of tears, snot, and lost pride.

"Hey- Hey now," Slade attempts, awkward in all things consoling. "It's okay, it wasn't expensive or anything." Slade sits down on his knees, hands up as if Dick was in his police uniform.

Dick's breathing slows. Slade Wilson was the walking personification of danger. Where he went, bodies followed. But currently, with his eye so wide and posture so open, he finds no hints of bad intentions. It's as alarming as it is comforting. 

"Slade." He mutters softly, closing his eyes. This was his mentor- from a time when he was weak and foolish and needy. This was the man that held him up as he was beat to a pulp and then fixed him up right after. This was the man who killed people for a living with little regard, but never quite managed to finish Dick off. The man who had more secrets than guns, allowing Dick in only briefly enough to show him his benevolence. His loss.

Dick knows he is in no danger. "Slade." He states again, reopening his eyes to confirm. The man nods, his appearance more visible close up. The familiar black eyepatch, the even more familiar blue-gray of his iris. His eyebrows cranked downwards in a perpetual frown, the dismissive edge to his lips. The scars that criss-cross over his body, his face, speaking more than Slade ever will. 

"Slade, Slade, Slade." He repeats it like a mantra. A prayer. A plea. His head drops with the name on his lips, he lets the fight leave his body. Lets himself go limp, put all his trust- his life, in the man's calloused, blood soaked hands.

It isn't as scary as Dick thought it would be. 

"I've got you."

**Author's Note:**

> im going to post more in the weekend! Need to catch up for a few days. Currently in the midst of exams (i haave one tmmrw morning lol ! studying is for losers! i am so cool! i need help oh god oh fuck.) but its okay everything is alright and everyone cheered.
> 
> Feedback always appreciated!


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